The Divinations of Dragons
by hollowed.akatsuki
Summary: The Divines tend to work in most mysterious ways. Few should know that better than the two vagabonds who- through a string of chance encounters and the fickle whims of destiny- become embroiled in the fabled return of the World-Eater himself. This is, quite simply, the legend of the Dragonborn. Or, rather, the legend of two born hunters of dragonkind.
1. A Dubious Commencement of Adventure

**A Dubious Commencment of Adventure**

"Gods," one of the men complained, "we're so very close to the Rift."

"Yeah, of course. What about it?"

"Why is it so blasted cold, then?" he angrily exclaimed.

Ralof scoffed at the notion. "I thought we were Sons of Skyrim, not some puffed-up flock of elves in Valenwood. Toughen up, snowback."

The other men laughed at the timely joke. It had been a long trip to Darkwater Crossing, and many of them had suffered from increasingly-dour dispositions. Not helping this, of course, was the fact that they had been riding in the saddle for much of the day, with not so much as a brief respite along the journey. Well, except for their actual arrival at the small mining town, but even then, Jarl Ulfric had been somewhat anxious as he discussed the war with the locals. Tensions were high when word came that General Tulius had taken up command of the Legion in Skyrim, and that (for whatever reason) seemed to plague their rightful High King's every thought.

Almost as if he could telepathically hear what was being thought by his loyal warriors, Ulfric motioned for his mount to stop. Without turning to face his men, his voice sharply rang out. "Quiet. _Listen_."

Immediately, all chatter stopped, and the Jarl's loyal bodyguards reached for their blades. Dismounting, they all protectively surrounded Ulfric's destrier. From afar, two figures stood face-to-face. While none of them could make out the words, there was clearly some disputation afoot. Certainly not a threat, by any means, but it would be imprudent of them to not see what was going on.

* * *

"You villainous klutz! You hair-brained son of a harlot! You…you…housecat! Damn you! There's ink all over my journal, now! The pages are ruined, damn it!"

Fjolnir's day was simply getting worse by the minute. An entire diurnal had just been wasted trying to find some brief escapade to engage in, several hours lost trying to write some thought-provoking poetry, and now his provisions were covered in sticky, black ink. Worse still, his journal had also become a casualty of this "accident."

 _This is just plain sabotage. I know it, and this fuzzy villain knows it, too. Look at him! Still writing away, pretending to not notice how horribly he has just ruined my entire career! I'll show him, damn it!_

* * *

Ka'Liar finally looked up, the randomness of this angered outburst startling the Khajiit more than enough to make his fur stand on end. As he looked at the ebon-haired Nord, he was horrified to see that he had just accidently spilt the contents of his vial of ink onto the human's open knapsack. A brief gander into the leather pouch indicated that absolutely nothing had been spared from the incidental spilling.

Very quickly, Ka'Liar became horrified at what had just occurred. The last thing he wanted was to anger anybody so soon into his journey in Skyrim. And now, it looked as if he had just failed at the one goal he had just set for himself.

* * *

"What's the matter? Has the…cat…got your tongue? Say something, Gods damn it!"

Fjolnir was past the point of caring of what happened to his belongings. Now, he just sought an outlet to his drunken rage, and to relieve the stress of the day by teaching this saboteur a lesson.

One look at this black and white housecat revealed just how apathetic this walking, talking beast was at what he had just done. For months, Fjolnir had been writing an epic tale of adventures that he had engaged in over the years. Raised as a sellsword, there were always journeys to be had and things to see, and it was these very things that Fjolnir intended to make a profit off of retelling.

But now? That idea was now but a dream. There would be no fame for Fjolnir at the end of his days- and there would certainly be no literature published by the illustrious Dancer of the Sea of Ghosts himself.

In great anger and turmoil, Fjolnir unsheathed his sword. The Skyforge steel glistened in the incandescent early morn. As sharp as the blade in his hand, Fjolnir's grating voice rang out again. "Say something, you poxy housecat! Oh, what? Audacious enough to ruin my life's work, yet cowardly enough to shy away from your gaffe?"

* * *

Ka'Liar did not know what to say at all. Clearly, this Nord was mad with some desire to stick a sword through his breast, yet even so, he could do nothing but stutter over his words. Unsurprisingly, the Khajiit could smell a rather strong scent of alcohol on his confronter's breath.

Almost as if the Mane had been there alongside him, an idea came to Ka'Liar. Reaching for his own knapsack, he pulled out a pricey bottle of Black-Briar Reserve, motioning it towards the violent Nord.

"I apologize for the damages. I myself was writing when I accidently crashed into you. Admittedly, I should have been looking as to where I was going. Perhaps I could…patch things up…with this bottle of Black-Briar mead?"

* * *

Fjolnir was about to grudgingly accept the bottle as an act of good faith (and to renew his drunken vigor enough for their inevitable fight, as well as the vital task of quenching his sudden thirst) when the sound of a war horn blared throughout the snowy forest. Accompanying it was the sound of a commander of some sort shouting above the loud, thunderous sounds of war.

"Swords at the ready! Archers, notch!"

Fjolnir adopted a combative stance at hearing this, and his Khajiit acquaintance did likewise with an iron sword that he had hooked to his swordbelt. Looking over to where the noise had originated from, he could see a Legion commander dressed in the crimson garments of the Empire. Around him were countless other soldiers, some wielding standard-issue broadswords, bows, and even a few hooded mages with crackling lightning spells. All of them were poised and ready to attack.

"Draw!" barked the commander. Fjolnir found it strange, however, that the Imperials did not appear to be glancing at them. Rather, their sights seemed to be focused on a group of ruffians far behind them, whom were also armed to the teeth and prepared to attack.

The next utterance made by the commander helped to solidify this stance. With a loud, authoritative voice, the commander spoke once more.

"Ulfric Stormcloak! You have been found guilty of treason and regicide!"

Just then, more scarlet-smocked men emerged from the lonely line of pines.

"You and your men are surrounded!" he continued. "Lay down your arms and yield! Your men will be spared if you surrender immediately! Their lives are in your hands!"

"Ulfric Stormcloak?" Ka'Liar said to himself, taken aback by the implication.

Sure enough, the Khajiit saw the Jarl of Windhelm in the center of the mass of azure-armored men and women, his face tightening into a grimace as his gaze turned towards their flanks.

* * *

"Jarl Ulfric," Ralof huskily whispered, "just give the order and we will cut a path through their ranks."

The others murmured in agreement. A young, boastful lad added, "We'll keep them occupied for as long as we can, and you can make it back to Windhelm safely."

That, of course, sent the group into a large, clamorous discussion as to how they would hold the Imperials off, allow Ulfric the chance to escape, and then hunker down until their Jarl could return with reinforcements.

"Enough!" Ulfric shouted above their glory-mad exclamations.

A sharp tap of his boot stirred his horse to motion, both rider and mount moving past the High King's faithful defenders. Meanwhile, Ralof and his shield-brothers and sisters looked on in dismay.

"Very well!" Ulfric said in reply to the Imperial commander. Throwing his war axe upon the worn stone road, he added, "I now lay down my arms for my shield-brothers, and I henceforth surrender for my shield-sisters. I, High King Ulfric Stormcloak, surrender for the Sons and Daughters of…"

"Advance!"

* * *

From all sides, as both Fjolnir and Ka'Liar noticed, a sea of red uniforms emerged from the trees, all descending upon the intolerably small group of Stormcloaks. They saw Ulfric look behind him to say something to his soldiers, though they could not make out any of the words of which he spoke.

First, one blond-haired Nord threw down his axe. A beardless man let his sword clatter to the ground. The greatsword that had once been in the hand of a Nordic lass met with the road with a loud _clang_. This continued with each and every Stormcloak, until they were but a mass of unarmed prisoners, being taken in by the Imperial Legion, no less.

"Where do you suppose they're taking them?" Fjolnir asked his acquaintance, the housecat's slight now forgotten by the inebriated Nord.

"Same place you two are going," a voice interrupted. "To Helgen. It's to the headsman for all of you."

Fjolnir quickly turned towards the unseen speaker, and found himself face-to-face with the Imperial commander whom both he and Ka'Liar had espied from afar. Beside him were four archers with notched arrows, and six Imperial infantrymen with swords at the ready, and with shields upraised and prepared to repel any attack made by the two adventurers.

"Well…" Fjolnir said, unsure of what to make of this. "Shit."

"Sir," Ka'Liar urged, "I'm not a rebel, I assure you. I've literally been in Skyrim for less than three hours, and I've yet to even speak with one of these rebels! Now, I don't know about _him_ , but…"

"You damnable housecat!" Fjolnir exclaimed. Turning to face the Khajiit, he said, "I am no rebel, gods damn you! By the Nine, I…"

Realizing his mistake, Fjolnir turned towards the Imperials once more. They appeared just as puzzled as the Khajiit was to his untimely antics, though the commander seemed almost amused by the incriminating phrase he had just uttered.

"By the…Eight," Fjolnir said slowly, meekly surrendering before either Ka'Liar or the Imperials tried to subdue him themselves. "I'm a citizen of the Imperial province of Skyrim," he soberly added. "I've never been branded a criminal, nor have I murdered any other rightful citizen of the Empire, or engaged in illegal proclivities that I knew to have been immoral at the time. I am, as you will see, _just_ as innocent as the housecat over here."

The Imperial commander almost seemed touched by Fjolnir's little speech. Had it not been windy outside, Fjol would have attributed the man's rheumy eyes towards his having wept at the performance that the Nord had given.

That was, until the commander laughed and said, "Good. Then that makes you two as guilty as the other. Good enough for me."

Jerking his head at the two men, the commander looked to his subordinates and said, "Restrain them. If they resist, then you may kill them. The chopping block is too good for their ilk, anyways."

As the infantrymen approached, Ka'Liar quietly capitulated, hands upraised to show that he was indeed unarmed. Fuming, Fjolnir was rebelliously grumbling as two of the six soldiers grabbed him by the arms. Pushed to his knees, the Nord felt one of the bastards come around to the front to bind his wrists in hempen rope. A quick glance to his side revealed the same being done to Ka'Liar.

Once they had been restrained, the Imperial commander took one lingering glimpse upon the two captives before ordering that they be thrown aboard the cart with the rest of the Stormcloaks. Thus, it was with an escort of Imperial soldiers that the two traveled, pushed and prodded towards two wagons, within which a sizeable menagerie of Nordic men and women sat. They were all forlornly slouching in their seats, shooting occasional glares at their captors, and occasionally whispering to one another in rather sharp tones when no one was looking.

Fjolnir was pushed into the first of the two carts, between an attractive young lass with golden locks and a boy of around twenty years. Ka'Liar, meanwhile, was pushed alongside a disheartened Nord with disheveled blond hair and a great deal of stubble coating his face. Also next to the Khajiit was an emaciated man in rags, as well as another Nord in the royally opulent clothing of a Jarl.

With very little ceremony, both carts lurched forward, signaling the beginning of a bumpy, uncomfortable ride towards certain doom, in the little isolated hamlet of Helgen.

* * *

A Friendly Little Note from One of the Authors:

Good day, this is speaking. The garrulous chapter that you just read is part of a collaboration between me and a close friend of mine in the real world. We shall be writing new chapters whenever it strikes our fancy, and I personally hope to get this fun little project up to 50,000 words, if possible. Considering the subject material, this is a very, very realistic goal. For now, simply enjoy the story, maybe post a review if you're in the mood or if you've something to say, and keep your eyes peeled for yet another chapter. Oh, and be sure to check out the forum known as "Black as Ash," where fun RPing action with a menagerie of fun fellows is but a click of the mouse away!

Stay tuned for yet another installment!


	2. The Serendipitous Happenstance

"Hey, you," a faint voice said. "You're finally awake."

Ka'Liar's eyes fluttered open, still weighed down with the burdens of a deep, dissonantly peaceful rest. Knuckling at his eye, the Khajiit regained control of his faculties, and had successfully brought himself back to the world of the conscious.

While asleep, he had dreamed of faraway Elsweyr, of the twisting dunes of warm and welcoming sand, of the fine Khajiiti cuisine masterfully sprinkled with moon sugar in the customary food preparation techniques, and of the numerous experiences that he first tasted of in his homeland. The various escapades his friends and him had engaged in as but mere kittens, his first drink of some forgotten brew that had left him stumbling for balance, and his eventual departure, for whom no one had attended, save for several drunks who had happened to barge their way outside whilst Ka'Liar had been passing.

From there, the Imperial City had been his destination, both in this dream world and in reality. Using secondhand knowledge of fighting learned in Elsweyr, he had brought in gold as an adventurer, spelunker, and small-time procurer of treasures. This had, for the most part, afforded him a comfortable existence, and he dreamed of the fine wines that he had sampled, the expensive sweetmeats and cheeses that he tasted, and of the countless exciting journeys he had embarked on.

His dream had then carried him to a cold, merciless scenery. Monolithic mountains leered down upon him, the snow beating itself against his form as if to repel him from the land, and the random incident that had left him in fetters.

That last part, he realized, was not part of the dream. He had no idea how long he had sat there brooding over his capture, but the blond-haired Nord that had first awoken him spoke once more, this time slightly louder than before.

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there."

The man- though restricted by the rope about his wrists- gestured as best he could, pointing his thumb at another human, this one in rags. The new arrival, Ka'Liar decided, must have been captured shortly after he had fallen asleep. Though perhaps "beaten about the head and knocked unconscious" was a more apt phrase; the Imperial commander had a most wicked right hook, that was for sure.

What's more, he seemed to have quite a bit to say about everyone in the cart. "Damn you Stormcloaks," he spat back. "Skyrim was peaceful before you came along; Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!"

Looking back at Ka'Liar, he then said, "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks that the Empire wants."

Given the circumstances of his arrest, Ka'Liar was inclined to agree, but it was the blond Nord who responded first. In a tone that brooked no further argument or dispute, he retorted, "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, _thief_."

"Shut up back there!" interrupted the Imperial carriage driver.

The human in rags glanced at the forlorn Nord adorned in the noble finery, who Ka'Liar had soon identified as Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl with whom he had been acquainted with earlier that morning. There was, for whatever reason, a piece of cloth tightly bound about his mouth, essentially gagging him. His eyes were trained upon the rickety floor of the carriage, as if he sought to find solace tucked between the planks of wood.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" asked the thief.

As if the horse-stealing human had just slapped their fellow prisoner, the blond Nord quickly came to Ulfric's defense, as if he was the Jarl's defensive lapdog.

"Watch your tongue!" he warned. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King!"

Though this was all nothing new to him, hearing these words spoken aloud made Ka'Liar gradually understand just what in the name of Oblivion he had gotten himself into. Ulfric had been the subject of many a rumor outside of Skyrim. Some said that he murdered the High King. Others were adamant that he had used the Voice of ancient Nordic legend to shout him to pieces. A few drunken scoundrels had even gone as far as refuting both of these claims, and claimed that he had summoned a dragon of old to burst through the Blue Palace and devour the High King, crown and all.

Regardless of how the murder was committed, the last part of the tale was always the same, no matter how many dragons or users of the Voice were involved. Ulfric had then escaped from the city, returned to Windhelm (which Ka'Liar knew to be some northern city that was perpetually snowy), and roused what few Jarls that would listen to him. Most, if not all of the Jarls to the East had joined his cause, thus starting this whole "Stormcloak" business. According to secondhand gossip, anyways, and stories shared by unsavory passerby and sailors with anecdotally-charged minds.

The thief seemed to have come to the same conclusion. "Jarl Ulfric? You're the leader of the rebellion."

The man's face revealed the pure horror behind his revelation. "But if they captured you...oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Ka'Liar knew the answer to that question long before the thief had asked it. They were to be sent to the chopping block. The Imperial commander had said as much when he and the drunken Nord had been captured. They would, the Khajiit realized, be leaving Helgen in but one way: as headless corpses. He said nothing for now, however. The thief had enough problems already.

The blond Nord didn't think so, it seemed, for he replied, "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

The thief, now utterly terrified, broke out into a hysterical mantra. "This can't be happening. This can't be happening!"

"Hey," the Nord said. "What village are you from, horse-thief?"

"Why do you care?" the thief demanded, his voice cracking in fear.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

After a brief pause, the thief answered the question, for what little good that the consolation seemed to do him. "Rorikstead. I'm…I'm from Rorikstead."

They were, as Ka'Liar observed, now at the gates of Helgen. Had it not been so heavily fortified with Imperial soldiers, he would have thought the village to be quaint, with the sort of charm that seemed to bless other small hamlets like it. Hamlets much like the one he was born in, he mused.

A smile had formed upon Ka'Liar's lips as his thoughts drifted back to Elsweyr, the walls of Helgen turning to the warm dunes of the arid desert, the ramshackle cluster of wooden homes morphing into the open markets of his birthplace. For a brief moment, he could even smell a hint of mesmerizing incense burning somewhere. And though the sun was still struggling to peek out from atop the mountainsides, he felt a gracious warmth course through his very soul that filled him with serene contentment. The talkative Stormcloak was right, it seemed, in regards to home. Either that, or even a Khajiit could be born with the heart of a Nord. The thought earned Ka'Liar merriment enough to faintly chuckle, and to at least temporarily forget his peril.

His tranquility was shattered when the cart came to a jolting halt. As both carts lined up side-by-side, two Imperial soldiers- one of them a captain- approached them. The captain's subordinate held a piece of parchment and a quill, and was likely there to account for the prisoners. There, in the young man's hands, was a list. Each name on it was yet another doomed to meet the axe on this terrible morn. It filled Ka'Liar with dread upon realizing that his name was written somewhere upon that piece of accursed parchment.

"Why are we stopping?" the thief asked. While Ka'Liar had been daydreaming, he and the blond Nord had been engaging in as casual a conversation as they could manage, given the circumstances.

As everyone arose from the uncomfortable seats upon which they had been spirited towards this certain death, the Nord said, "Why do you think? End of the line." This sent the thief into an agitated panic once more, and he now pleaded with any that would listen that this was all but a mistake. Predictably, no one listened.

One by one, they stumbled on legs stiff with disuse, and hopped from the cart and onto the frost-covered dirt below. The Imperial captain looked to be an imposing female, judging by the perpetual anger resplendently present in her facial features. Her voice, as Ka'Liar soon found out, was equally irate.

"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time!"

"Empire loves their damn lists," the blond Nord muttered. No one seemed to have heard his withering remark, for the bearer of the list proceeded to rattle off their names.

The first name was that of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. As he silently strode towards the chopping block, many Stormcloaks muttered mournful lamentations as he passed. Out of curiosity, Ka'Liar turned his attention towards the other cart. Sure enough, his assailant was standing in line, the scrap iron that had served as his armor now replaced with a tunic of less than adequate quality. It was only then that the Khajiit noticed that he wore similar garments, speaking volumes as to how poor his raiment had been prior to his incarceration. He truthfully did not wish to know which Imperial had undressed him, nor what manner of man would dare touch the drunken specimen that was that ebon-haired Nord. That did, however, mean that all of his belongings lie strewn about somewhere, and that he would likely not be able to reclaim them.

He had little time to dwell on either of these things, however, for the list-keeper (who had just called the blond Nord apparently named "Ralof") had called upon yet another victim.

Looking at the thief, he drearily said, "Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

The thief known as Lokir then bolted for the gates of Helgen, not stopping even when the captain demanded that he halt. Ka'Liar felt a pang of sorrow for the man, for he realized the blatant futility of such a move. The gates- one of few obstacles that lie between him and freedom- were positioned at least thirty meters from where they now stood. Sure enough, an arrow found its way into the Nord's back before he so much as ran half that distance.

Almost immediately after Lokir perished, the Imperial captain turned towards both carts of prisoners. "Anybody else feel like running?" she asked in a most threatening tone. Satisfied by the silence that followed, she rescinded at last. The list-keeper resumed his tally. The only one left to account for was Ka'Liar. Had he said that he was not afraid, he would be flagrantly lying. Even so, he recognized the inevitability of this outcome. No matter how he might protest, his death was assured.

He was prepared to approach when the list-keeper did something that struck him as being particularly curious. With a look of confusion, he inspected the Khajiit, then looked back to his list. Taking a moment to trace the wording upon the list with his finger, he then gazed back towards Ka'Liar.

"You there," he said, "step forward."

Ka'Liar did as he was bade, timorously moving towards the list-keeper.

With the most expressive looks of befuddlement, the man flatly asked, "Who are you?"

* * *

" _I_ am Fjolnir Sword-Quill. _You_ , my dear overlord, are mistak…"

"Quiet!" the sanctimonious warden of the divine list chided. With a furrowed brow, she glanced over the list in her oafish hands, clearly checking for his name. This went on for an unusually long period of time, indicating that she was either slower than a horker in mental faculties and literacy, or that Fjolnir was as innocent as he believed he was. Or, he supposed, they thought him too unimportant to take note of his illustrious name. The thought greatly lowered Fjolnir's spirits, much more so than the threat of execution did at the moment.

"Captain!" she called.

Her slave-driver was, however, concerned with the other list-warden, in regards to a problem with the Khajiit with whom Fjolnir had already met. While he didn't hear the full conversation, he did hear the Nordic keeper of the list mournfully tell the Khajiit that his remains would be returned to Elsweyr. While they hardly knew one another, Fjolnir did feel slightly remorseful for having been such an arse to him literally an hour before the cat's death. When Fjol got out of this, he decided, he would make a toast to the Khajiit that he never knew, and drink to the name that he did not know.

"Captain!" the woman urged once again. "This man isn't on the…"

The Imperial captain was, apparently, growing increasingly impatient with this whole execution business, for she marched towards the woman with a look of pure malice.

"If a prisoner is not on the list, he goes to the block anyways! This lot is filled with nothing but Stormcloaks and Stormcloak sympathizers! Is that understood?"

"Actually, ma'am," Fjolnir interrupted, "I'm a fervent royalist, and I fully support…"

"Silence, churl!" the captain said, seemingly poised to attack if necessary (or perhaps even just on impulse, if the look in her eye was anything to go by). Rather than order him around once more, she seized him by the arm and lugged him towards the other prisoners. As he knew better than to fight back, Fjol simply stood where she placed him, and thought angry thoughts as she stomped off towards the priest of the Divines and the headsman.

* * *

Ka'Liar would have smiled in amusement if they had not been moments away from execution. Even so, a far more intriguing sight was underway. An aging man in the uniform of an Imperial general was standing almost nose-to-nose with Jarl Ulfric. Hate and anger was coiled into his facial features as he glared at the prisoner.

In a loud, imposing voice, he spoke at last.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfric gave a muffled grumble that might have been a coarse retort, had it been intelligible. No matter what it was that the Jarl said, the Imperial understood the message well and clear.

The old Imperial continued. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

In reply, a faraway noise was heard, it having been carried upon the wind. Ka'Liar was uneasy as he heard the sound. It was far too guttural to be some mere woodland creature, and it seemed to have come from the mountains themselves. A watchtower blocked his line of sight, so covertly investigating the origin of the sound proved impossible.

The sympathetic list-keeper seemed to have heard the noise as well. "What was that?" he asked.

The senior Imperial dismissed the man's question almost immediately. "It's nothing," he said, turning towards the captain. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tulius!" she saluted. She then motioned to the priest of the Divines, who had been waiting ever so patiently the entire time. "Give them their last rites," she commanded.

The headsman, meanwhile, was inspecting the blade on his axe, looking for any imperfections. Ka'Liar winced when he saw the hooded man run his finger along the blade before flinching in pain. That clearly meant that the axe was ready. Their deaths would be swift, at least. That was all that the Khajiit could hope for.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines be upon you," the priest preached. At the phrase "Eight," one Stormcloak had angrily stepped forward, towards the block.

Before he interrupted, the pious woman had been going into a long-winded (and somewhat ironic) speech about how they were the earth and salt of Nirn, amongst other ill-timed phrases, considering who it was they were executing, and for what reason they stood before the chopping block.

With a tone of rebelliousness in his tone, the Stormcloak rebuked, "For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with!"

The priest, stopping midway through the prayer, could barely contain the unbridled spite in her voice when she stopped the rite. "As you wish," she snarled in a way unbefitting of a holy woman. For what amounted to a victory for the Imperials, the Khajiit noticed, all of their captors were proving increasingly incensed as this affair dragged on. Not that it bothered any of the prisoners, who would be dead before the day was done one way or another.

The Stormcloak seemed pleased with his act of rebellion, and decided that now was the time to take the utmost refuge in audacity. Standing in front of the chopping block, he chided, "Come on! I haven't got all morning!"

The Imperial captain was more than happy to oblige his request. Placing a hand on his spine, she proceeded to push him to his knees, her features not betraying any emotion that she might be feeling at that moment. Then, placing her boot upon his back, she lowered him down until his neck rested atop the block, his head turned to face his executioner.

While Ka'Liar could not see the man's face, he could hear the tone in which he spoke. There was no fear in his final words. There was no regret or sorrow, nor was there a shred of pertinence. Rather than spend his final moments groveling, the Stormcloak instead posed a question to his slayer, and all of those who had gathered to watch.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

The headsman raised his axe high above his head, as if he might be chopping lumber. There was little sentiment in his movements. With the same tedium that one would display when splitting a slab of wood, he brought the axe down with a wet _whump_. As the Stormcloak's head rolled off into a little basket, Ka'Liar knew what the answer to the man's question had been: "Yes," was the mute executioner's silent reply; agreement had been the axe's response.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof somberly reflected.

* * *

The captain then pointed a finger at Fjolnir. "Next! The Nord in the rags!"

Before Fjol could so much as call the harlot out for her blatant discrimination against intellectuals such as him, the ominous roar reverberated through the town once more. Though it might have been the anxiety that Fjolnir was now undergoing, it almost sounded…louder. _No, closer_ , he thought.

"There it is again," the male list-warden noted. "Did you hear that?"

The captain, apparently miffed at having been so terribly ignored, repeated her query slightly louder than before. "I said, 'Next prisoner!'"

The Imperial man looked back at Fjolnir with a remorseful glance. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

Fjol took a moment to examine his surroundings. There were Imperials at the gates, Imperials patrolling the streets, and Imperials circling the chopping block. They all had broadswords, and at least half of them had bows. The captain had her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, and even the man named General Tulius was eyeing him suspiciously. Death would be guaranteed if he was to try and escape. He would be just like that dead bloke whose body was still sprawled about the ground.

Any other day, he would have fought. He would have unsheathed his sword, challenged his confronters, and would have resolved to at least die with a smile on his lips. The only problem was that he didn't have a sword, and that he didn't have anything witty to say. At least he could still die grinning, he decided. If anything, he could at least leave a lasting impression on everyone with that last act of insolence. "Fjolnir the Smiling Martyr" had a nice ring to it, he supposed.

So, seeing no other path but the one presented to him, he walked towards the block. Standing where the defiant Stormcloak had stood merely several minutes ago, he cast a wicked smirk at his executioner. If the headsman had reacted at all to the smile, his cloth hood concealed it.

The captain's calloused hand pushed Fjol down to his knees. Now more than ever, he could fear the cold gazes of everyone around him, and he found himself wanting to urge the captain and headsman to hurry up and get it over with. It would not do his reputation any good if he was to lose his composure now.

As if the gods had heard his grievance, the captain's boot weighed down upon his back, easing him onto the chopping block. His head was positioned in such a way that he was looking straight into the unblinking eyes of the man that had come before him. The eyes were glassy, the gaze dead and unyielding. This bodiless head, he darkly thought, was to be his companion in death.

Almost mechanically, the headsman once again went through the motions of executing his victim. Taking his axe in both hands, he hefted the massive wedge of steel high above his head.

At the last moment, Fjolnir shut his eyes, hoping that the last thing he ever see might be anything but the emotionless cloth hood of his executioner, or his unblinking companion. In seconds, his head would part ways with his neck and shoulders, and it would be a straight trip to Sovngarde for him. Feasting and fighting in the halls of Shor did not seem so horrid a fate, he decided. The idea of dueling with Olaf One-Eye and even the fabled Tongues seemed almost too good to be true. And yet, as he stuck his neck out for the headsman's axe, deliverance to this dreamland was but one fateful swing away.

Fjolnir had all but retreated from the sounds of the realm of the living. As such, he could no longer hear what was being said around him, nor did he pay attention to what was going on. That was, until the momentous cry that brought him back to reality.

"What in Oblivion is _that_?"

The speaker appeared to be the man known as Tulius. The tone in his voice had changed to an incredulous tenor of fear and surprise, rather than the victorious fury that he had begun his morning with.

That was of little concern to Fjolnir, for a loud crashing sound made its presence, seemingly from above. Almost reluctantly, Fjolnir craned his head to look behind his executioner, and it was then that- looking at the top of the watchtower- he was met with a most perplexing sight.

He had seen intimidating creatures before. Fjolnir had come into contact with trolls of monstrous proportions, nightmarishly-vicious bears, packs of savagely slavering wolves, and enough Skyrim fauna to make him weary of most outdoor attractions. Nature, the Nord had been taught, was as deadly as it was majestic, and rightfully so.

This abomination, however, was not of nature, and its very appearance should be enough to drive any lesser man into a terrible frenzy. There are very few words in any of the languages of Mundus that could ever hope to describe such terrible sights as the massive, jet black monster that glared at them. Its eyes seemed to be two crimson fires, filled with nothing but hate, and fueled by a hunger for death.

The size of the beast was especially daunting. Though the thing's entire form was concealed partially by the way it was perched on the tower, it easily filled the entirety of the space it was standing upon. It could have easily been the size of the inn, if Fjolnir was to guess.

Worse yet, it was looking straight at him. Fear filled Fjolnir's mind as he scampered off of the block, and he yelled in spite of himself. He knew what this fiend was. Judging by everyone else's reaction, they knew, as well.

"Dragon!"

Almost in reply, the damnable wyrm roared. Rather than the guttural shrieks that the storybooks would have you think to be the sound of a vicious dragon, this was a deep, almost pervasive…shout. Almost humanoid, with some unseen articulation of the tongue occurring at the same time, there was an undeniable power in the beast's voice.

That last statement was a bit more literal than Fjol would have liked. For with this quasi-roar came the darkening of the sky, amongst other foreboding elements making their presence known in the clouds. Another roar managed to somehow forcibly push everyone down, as if buffeted by some great wind, of if the occult hand of the gods had swept them across the floor.

As he toppled to the dirtied ground, his vision dimmed, and he found himself unable to stand. He was too afraid for either of these things. He was convinced that looking at this beast would turn its attention upon him, and that standing would make him more of a target nonetheless. This wyrm couldn't possibly be after him specifically, so evasion remained his most effective strategy. Playing dead would work as well as anything, he supposed. Hoped, rather.

Just when he thought that his plan was going to work, Fjolnir felt someone nudging him rather succinctly and harshly. A quick examination revealed his attacker to be the man known as Ralof of Riverwood, if his earlier eavesdropping proved correct.

"Hey! Kinsman! Get up!" he was urging, having already risen to his feet once more. "Come on! The gods won't give us another chance!"

Seeing as how his cover had already been blown, Fjol stumbled to his feet as fast as he could, and hobbled off after the fleeing Ralof. Tulius was ordering his men to get the rustics indoors and towards safety, while the Stormcloaks rushed about, having now opted to escape than be killed by Imperials or devoured by a beast of legends. The Khajiit was nowhere to be seen.

They made it across the town square without incident, but certainly not unscathed by the terrible sights occurring around them. The dragon had taken to the skies, its prominent, leathery wings supporting the massive monster's flight. From above, its fiery breath immolated all caught in the fiery miasma.

Ralof and Fjol, thankfully, were not one of those people. They made it to an untouched watchtower, the door feverishly slamming behind them as they entered. Inside, they were greeted with the sight of several other prisoners. They were all adorned in matching azure uniforms, marking them as Stormcloak soldiers. One, however, was dressed in far more affluent and regal attire. His mouth was gagged, and there was no mistaking his identity—Tulius had been kind enough to enlighten everyone during his rant earlier. This was no less a person than Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing?" Ralof asked, clearly shaken by the experience of seeing such a beast up close. "Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric calmly replied. If the Jarl and contender for the throne deserved commendation for anything, it was his veiled penchant for deadpanning.

A series of loud crashes originating from outside the watchtower snapped them out of their respite. The ferocity with which these crashes occurred meant very clearly that their scaly assailant had turned his attention towards them once more.

Directing his attention towards the staircase, Ulfric warned, "We need to move! Now!"

The Jarl did not need to tell Fjolnir twice, nor anyone else, for that matter. Almost on command, everyone bounded up the steps with a most vehement pace. Several times, Fjol's foot caught itself upon a flagstone, though he was quick to recover each time. He was truly surprised that the climb up had not killed him, given his reckless speed. Or he would have been, had he not been seeking a deliverance from a far more insidious threat lurking just outside the tower.

Much to their dismay, rubble had completely blocked their exit out of the tower, though one industrious Stormcloak was diligently working at attempting to clear away the stones.

He was just about to say something in regards to his progress in that endeavor when the entire wall that he was working beside practically exploded, showering him and what little work he had accomplished with even more rubble. Replacing the wall was the dragon.

Everyone was quick in retreating back down the steps. Fjolnir had let out a shout of terror beside himself, shortly before losing his footing. Rolling down the steps, he was out of the dragon's line of sight, yet he was still able to detect an orange glow emanating from above, where the foul wyrm was located. Accompanying this was another feral roar.

Crowded together, the escaping prisoners held their breaths as they waited. Soon, the glow from above dissipated, and their assailant launched off of the tower with a terrifying amount of force, letting loose a string of cacophonous growls while doing so.

On cue, they all resumed their scaling of the stairs, attempting to make up for the progress lost but moments ago. Fjolnir and Ralof were leading the feverish pack this time, however, and the former was gradually beginning to consider following these rebels a death sentence, even more so than the one delivered by the Imperials minutes before.

This suspicion was confirmed when they reached the cavernous hole left by the ebon-scaled dragon. From where they stood, certain death was but a step and a good ten meter drop away. Even so, Ralof seemed inclined to approach the improvised opening with a suicidal interest.

That was the start of Fjolnir's problems.

Turning towards him, Ralof pointed at the ruins of a building crossway from them, yet still some five meters below them, and an indeterminate distance across. "See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! Go! We'll follow you when we can!"

Fjolnir had no time to gripe before he was more or less shoved towards the hole. Instinct took over upon seeing the terrifying plummet awaiting him below. Though his balance was unsteady and his preparation for the jump seemed too little, his legs propelled him into the air, while gravity- being the fickle mistress that she is- dragged him towards the inn at a certainly fatal velocity.

"Gods damn it!" Fjolnir cried as he met with the wooden floor of the inn. Having recalled reading in a book that rolling upon falling from a long distance supposedly minimized the risk of injury, the Nord clumsily attempted to maneuver himself upon hitting the ground. All he succeeded in doing was landing upon a table, which then splintered and fell in upon itself upon impact.

Though the effort was difficult with his bound hands, Fjol dusted himself off and limped down the stairs, cursing the entire way. As if things weren't bad enough, he had landed in the middle of the Imperial defense, if the crowds of crimson-armored men were any indication.

The infantrymen were notching and loosing arrows with panicky hands, and very few of their projectiles hit their winged target. The hooded mages seemed to be having better luck, Fjol thought, but their largely ineffective spells were losing their rapidity as their users' magicka reserves went dry.

* * *

"Haming, you need to get over here! Now!"

As Ka'Liar looked on, his temporary warden continued to motion towards a young Nord child who was in the dragon's fatal sight. Just as the adolescent got to his feet and ran towards their group of refugees, the horrible creature descended from the sky, landing directly in front of them. Its eyes burned with a fiery bloodlust, its gaping maw letting loose a cacophonous shout resonant with death and terror.

What was originally a roar became a gout of twisting flames, scarlet fingers of fire that stretched out to snatch them in its fiery grip. Everyone lunged for cover as the spiraling flames advanced towards them. The boy had made it, thankfully, though a local man had been swiftly incinerated during the mad dash. The beast, meanwhile, had departed in search of more victims on the other side of the town.

"Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way."

Initially, Ka'Liar thought that Hadvar was speaking to him-never mind the fact that they had already had such an exchange but a few minutes earlier, when the Khajiit was confusedly scrambling about in search of safety. His suspicion proved to be on the mark, as Hadvar was not even looking in his direction, instead directing his attention towards a newcomer to their band of survivors.

Equal parts fear and disgust coursed up and down Ka'Liar's body, and his fur stood on end as he realized that this stranger was anything but. It would be impossible, after all, for him to forget the savage drunken Nord who had gotten him into all of this trouble.

The same, it seemed was true of the Nord. He regarded Ka'Liar with a curious stare, almost pleasantly surprised by the Khajiit's continued survival. Without a word, he shrugged, and fell in line with the rest of them.

Hadvar, meanwhile, had turned to face the other member of their group-a hoary, grizzled elder in iron armor. The latter was currently trying to calm the boy, who was in an understandable amount of shock.

"Gunnar, take care of the boy," Hadvar said. "I have to find General Tulius and join the defense."

Ka'Liar was not exactly content with their guardian being so eager to fight the dragon alongside the rest of the doomed soldiers of Helgen, especially given his hands still being bound together, as was also the case with the Nord. Even then, protestations were likely wasted on someone who would have been overseeing his execution earlier that same day. Besides, the gravity of the situation made speaking rather difficult for Ka'Liar, and made the impulse to run even greater than usual.

The man known as Gunnar merely nodded at Hadvar's request. "Gods guide you, Hadvar."

With those words of farewell, Hadvar had charged onwards, momentarily gesturing for the Khajiit and their tagalong to follow. Ka'Liar was quick to do so, and needed only a moment to catch up with their guide. The drunkard, however, limped in a sort of stupor, cursing and muttering a meter or two behind them.

They had made their way into the charred remains of what was once a building when their worst fear made a reemergence. The great black beast had landed upon the very same structure that they resided within the ruins of.

"Stay close to the wall!" Hadvar commanded. For his credit, their guide was unwaveringly brave; no sane or cowardly man would dare run that close to the scaled monster. Ka'Liar followed suit, and prayed that this loathsome creature would not turn its sights towards them. The Nord showed a visible reluctance in following, and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Come on!" Ka'Liar urged. "We're sure to die if we stay out here!"

"We're sure to die if we go over there _by the damned beast_ , housecat!" he snapped.

Any other man, given the circumstances, would have left the Nord to wallow in his cowardice. Saner men would have not bothered with arguing, and would have instead escaped with their own lives. Ka'Liar was not like those men, however.

Snatching the Nord by the wrist, the Khajiit dragged him along, his being able to do so likely due in part to the drunkard's unsteadiness upon his feet. His mouth, unfortunately, was not as rattled by this whole perilous event.

As they came closer and closer to the perched form of the dragon, Ka'Liar's charge became more distressed. The man's boisterous expletives also became more shockingly crude and desperate as the great beast belched fire upon soldiers in the street beyond their current obstacle. Hadvar, meanwhile, was crouched in the corner of the ruined structure, mouthing for them to hurry up, while beckoning with his free hand. The fact that he had waited this long was proof of the legitimacy of the empathy he so clearly displayed. The words that he silently mouthed, however, were just as vulgar in word choice as the drunkard's were.

With a lurch, the beast flapped its great wings and took to the skies, spewing fire from on high once more. An examination of the street he had been sieging revealed little more than ashes, ruins, and charred corpses still reeking of burnt flesh and bone. The sight did not deter Hadvar in the slightest, and Ka'Liar questioned whether their guide had even stopped to examine where they were going.

A sharp tug from the drunken Nord reminded him of the latter's presence. Wrenching his arm away from Ka'Liar's grip with phenomenal strength, he proceeded to dash onwards towards the leader of their group. "Come on! Hurry up, housecat, before the dragon comes back!" he shouted from afar. Unlike last time, the Khajiit was now forced to catch up with his two fellow survivors, though he was certainly doing a far better job than the staggering and reeling Nord.

Soon, Ka'Liar realized where, precisely, they were running towards. Helgen's keep was unimpressive, for the most part, but the stalwart protection that it would offer was undeniable. The trio passed under a stone archway before arriving in the spacious courtyard of the stronghold. They were not alone, however, much to Hadvar's dismay.

The blond Nord who Ka'Liar knew to be Ralof was also there, now unbound and armed with an iron axe. Their Imperial warden's back was to them as he confronted the Stormcloak.

"Ralof, you damned traitor! Out of my way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar," he replied. "You're not stopping this time!"

"Fine!" Hadvar said. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

The two soldiers from opposing armies clearly had a mutual desire to live this day, for that was the end of their confrontation. How exactly they knew one another was surely a tale for another day, especially since refuge was but a stone's throw away.

"Both of you, come on! Into the keep!"

Ralof, in a moment of fellowship, urged Ka'Liar and the Nord to follow him. Hadvar, however, did the same. "With me, prisoners!" he urged. "Let's go! Come on! We need to get inside!"

Ka'Liar, for his part, knew precisely with whom he would escape with. Freedom was moments away. And as he entered the keep, he was certain that he had at last escaped the cold maw of death...


End file.
